


bluebird

by cosmicheart



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Anxiety, College, Coming of Age, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oh god the pining, Summer Romance, Swimming Pools, Tenderness, just mentions of it, making food as a love language, many many love languages, swimming as a love language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:28:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27105724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicheart/pseuds/cosmicheart
Summary: “It means that I have faith in you,” he explains, “that you’ll make this my best summer yet, whether you try to or not.”At the end of the summer, Kuroo is leaving the city to go to college. Somewhere in between, Kenma finds balance in his world.
Relationships: Kozume Kenma/Kuroo Tetsurou
Comments: 10
Kudos: 73





	bluebird

**Author's Note:**

> hello !!! i LOVE summer romances and i love kuroken so what better than to write summer kuroken. because i'm not well-versed with the manga i didn't tag this as canon compliant but i think it could be a rough outline of what happened in canon if they fell in love.
> 
> but, anyway, a slight tw for a slight panic attack in the beginning if that triggers anyone! safe reading to all and i hope you enjoy <3

“Do you think you’ll re-dye your roots again soon, Kenma?” 

Shoyo’s fingers threaded carefully along his scalp, each fingertip working its delicate magic. The boy stands behind him, adjacent to the bathroom shelf and the knobby stool he was perched on, dedicating each time he meets the boy’s eye in the bathroom mirror to a smaller, less-defined smile—one that sits unsure on his face, one he hates seeing himself, one that Shoyo loves. The bathroom is always stuffy, but it never felt as humid with him in it. 

“No,” he says clearly, after a relaxing moment, “I don’t like the process, and I never do them myself, anyway.” 

“I’ll do them for you! Only if you want it,” he says, pulling his fingers through a particular knot, “But, honestly, I kinda like your hair this way. Lev does too! He told me last Saturday down at the shop.” 

_Lev_ , Kenma thinks, exasperated. Even the thought of his hyper, gangly counterpart makes his social battery feel depleted. He’s a nice kid—sincerely sweet and caring in the way most outward, expressive children are—but too much time around the boy sends him in a frenzy, and Lev never can quite pick up the clues he leaves for him. 

“Maybe later this summer.” It’s a sanguine statement, one he may or may not hold true to in the future, but it satisfies Shoyo, which is a good enough thing in itself. 

It’s quiet in the bathroom again. Shoyo’s fingers dance across his scalp, unknotting stray strands and the familiar tension wound up in his shoulders. There are their soft, inaudible breaths mixing in alongside his mom’s perfume which she sprayed hours ago, yet lingers in near and far corners. He can hear the other, younger neighborhood kids playing outside amongst each other laughing and talking. Quiet never truly exists in the hands of June. 

“We should go to the pool,” Shoyo announces, pulling his magic hands away from Kenma’s scalp, to his ends where they pool close to his shoulders. “What do you think?” 

_The pool?_ God, no. Kenma cringes as he says, “I don’t like swimming.” It’s a clumsy, half-formed truth, one that makes sense, though not entirely. 

“You don’t have to _swim_ ,” Shoyo explains, “You can watch me swim, or—you can sit on the sidelines and scroll on your phone like when we go to the park. We should do _something_. It’s a perfect day outside.” 

It _is_ a perfect day. Balmy, not scorching like most afternoons in June, sunny with a wispy-blue sky, laughs and people fluttering in distant, near places. Kenma understands wholly, but for circumstances that life has projected onto him, he can’t go to the pool. The pool is forbidden; _prohibited_. 

“Nowhere else in mind? You don’t want to watch a movie on the projector in the backyard and call it a day?” 

“Kenma,” Shoyo teases, low and drawn, “I know you’re like a cat and such, but are you really not into the whole pool idea? We don’t have to go if you really don’t wanna.” 

Kenma looks up into the bathroom mirror, meeting gazes with Shoyo. His ginger hair sits tussled on his head, wildly curly at the ends, one of his admirable features along with his sun-kissed summer freckles expanding all across the sliver of his collarbone. He smiles at him, and Kenma returns it, warmed by his presence ultimately. 

“I don’t mind that much,” he admits after a second, quietly. “We can go if you really want to.” 

Shoyo grins, throwing his arms around his neck. “Thanks, Kenma! Later, we can watch a movie in the backyard together since you want to.” 

He pulls away, tugging at Kenma’s arm for him to follow along. He leads him out of the bathroom, down past his parents’ room and closet, into his own bedroom splayed ajar. As always, the room is quiet, though sunny. The window cracks open just a hint, letting a breeze rush in. Probably his dad’s doing—he preaches fresh air is necessary for a loving home. Shoyo doesn’t mind it; he heads straight toward his dresser, ripping through one of his drawers. 

“I can borrow a pair of swim trunks, right?” Shoyo asks, holding up a blue pair his grandma bought for him a year or two ago. 

“You’re already looking for a pair,” Kenma responds, amused. 

Shoyo picks up the pair and throws it onto his astray backpack laying against the far bookshelf. “You need a pair too?” 

He shakes his head, looking down. He’s wearing a pair of shorts already paired with an old, worn t-shirt he bought from a thrift store a few years ago. He doesn’t plan on swimming. 

Shoyo shrugs and closes the drawer shut. He walks over, stuffs the shorts in his backpack amongst other unimportant things. He swivels around, a grin molding his face. “Well then, let’s go!” 

The walk toward the pool is fine. Shoyo chatters away as he always does, taking lead to their short-lived stroll. Kenma trails behind, thumbing away at his DS he grabbed before they left. The sun beats them like it’s its only purpose. Dragonflies and bees occupy every yard they pass, flying high to the clouds, then low in the grass. Nostalgia sits like a never-ending presence, an unmovable force. 

Kenma is dreading seeing him. _Him_. Kuroo Tetsurou. 

They haven’t spoken in three weeks. For some friendships, for some _people_ , three weeks is no time at all. It’s time alone, a short distance away, and the acknowledgment that everyone needs time to breathe. But for him and Kuroo, long-term best friends, even longer neighbors, and ever-present forces in each other’s lives, three weeks live up to a century. 

Kenma should’ve apologized. He _should_ apologize. They don’t argue often. They bicker, sure, but nothing ever serious lies under their teases and jaunts besides anything wholeheartedly caring. Kuroo has never been fond of yelling since they were kids, and Kenma has never been truly angry more than twice in his life, annoyance set as one of his revolving moods. He never thought to be annoyed all those days ago. There was only that distinct feeling of vexation welling up in every part of his body, nothing feeling quite as real as the deep sadness in his chest. 

He feels stupid thinking about it now. Everything feels stupid when you look back on it, but this, above all, feels petty. Maybe Kenma _is_ petty. 

The metal gates of the pool creak loudly as Shoyo pushes past them, letting the sight of the expanding pool come into view. Two large pools sit side-by-side together, holding the handfuls of people in their watery arms. Laughter and chattering are first nature here; two kids splash around in the shallow end of the pool, diving underneath to see who can hold their breath the longest. An older lady wallows alone in a deserted corner by herself, happily eyeing her daughter and grandson. A group of college students laugh and mess around, lunging and swimming at each other carelessly. 

“I’ll be out in a second, okay!” 

Shoyo is already running off to the bathrooms, waving him off to find a place to settle. Kenma nods meekly, looking back toward the view. The pool hadn’t changed at all. Even after seventeen years, every detail remained the same, never short of refreshingly familiar. His eyes glinted to the table in the far back, green outdoor umbrella with the same scratched plastic chairs. 

He settles there while Shoyo changes. 

When he does come out, unlike before, he’s the epitome of June’s essence. Chest-to-torso, he’s covered in freckles dotting along his tan body and sun-kissed legs. Shoyo is a very beautiful boy, Kenma can confirm. Even as he makes his way over, he smiles a little to himself, infatuated with his dear friend. 

“They fit okay,” Kenma observes, a statement more than a question. 

“They fit perfectly,” he says, setting down his backpack. “Thanks for lending them to me, Kenma!” 

He doesn’t say anything. Not like he needs to; the boy is already steadying himself on the edge of the pool, bracing himself to jump in with the rest. He looks back down at his DS in his lap, untouched as it waits to be un-paused. He presses play, and the world seems to press on quickly like it always does. 

While Shoyo swims his heart out, mingling around in the pool, he thumbs around on his DS. He keeps losing this one level over and over again to a boss mob with supposedly beatable stats, but a fiery will to live. It’s frustrating. The afternoon is starting to become frustrating; the sun’s grown a little warmer, the plastic chair feels stiff underneath him, and there is too much noise and natter engulfing him from every angle. He considers calling for Shoyo. He doesn’t call Shoyo. He considers toughing it out. He hates toughing it out. He— 

He looks up. 

There’s an eerie feeling around when someone is staring at you. Almost like their gaze settles onto you like a feeling, warm or cold depending on the person. 

This gaze is warm. 

There’s Kuroo. All the way across from him, at the other side of the pool, stiff in his body, almost as if seeing Kenma had thrown him off. Maybe it had. Kuroo stares blankly at him, unmoving, and he sits watching him in return, unsure of what to do. Of course, before even coming here, he knew Kuroo would be _somewhere_. He works here, after all. Kenma does not. 

A long-drawn moment settles between them. Without realizing, Kenma loses another game from not looking at his screen. Kuroo, like the idiot he is, grins at him. That sly, smug grin he always sports as if the world sits comfortably in his palms. Like he knows his life will always turn out in favor of him. He hates that smile. 

Luckily, Kuroo looks away. A kid tugs at his arm, pointing over to the gates where his friend is stuck in a bush. Something inside of him dissolves. Relief, probably. 

Kenma goes back to his game. For a while, he lets himself pretend he’s enjoying the pool scenery. Really, he’d like to be back home, and honestly, he’d prefer Shoyo’s hands back in his hair, massaging him till his death, and _truly_ his heart is starting to pick up speed by the second, thumping, thumping, thumping against his ribcage like it wants to break out, fly and be free— 

“Kenma!” It’s Shoyo, getting out from the pool, dripping water everywhere onto the concrete. He’s glowing; Kenma feels absorbed by the shade of the umbrella. “I’m getting a banana smoothie from The Fruit Shack—you want anything?” 

“Uh,” his voice croaks awkwardly, though Shoyo doesn’t seem to notice, “no thanks.” 

The boy shrugs as if to say _fine with me_ and pulls out a few dollars from the front pocket of his backpack. As soon as he makes it out of sight, Kenma lets out a hefty, strangled breath once wound up in his lungs. _Breathe_. He sets down his DS on the table and stands up on his own, eyeing the pool and its vicinities. His eyes land on a clear spot near the middle of the pool, unoccupied and lonely. That’s where he needs to be. 

Each step he takes weighs heavy on his feet, gravity trying its best to pull him further underneath, but he steadies his breaths as he slinks down to his knees, dipping his bare feet into the cool water. He closes his eyes as to count down from ten, slowly but carefully. _Ten_. His shoulders relax, unwinding the invisible knot of tension in his shoulders. _Nine. Eight. Seven._ He breathes in, then out, and in, then out, and the process never ends. _Six_. He opens his eyes, watching his feet underneath the clear aquamarine water. _Five_. He sticks his leg deeper into the pool, icy cool against his calf. _Four_. He does such to his other leg. _Three_. He submerges his entire body into the pool, ignoring his previous thoughts about not swimming. _Two_. He settles deeper underneath the synthetic water, taking in everything around him. A father and his three daughters, all smiles and patience. A young man, alone, laying in dead man’s pose, looking up at the sky. The big, bulging sun facing directly at him. _One_. 

Kenma swims. 

He paddles farther, deeper into the pool, unsure of _why_ he’s doing this, _why_ it has to be today, _why_ Shoyo’s not here, but he can only paddle so much until his arms get sore. They leave him deserted in the exact middle of the pool, surrounded on every side with people. People boxing him in, closer, closer, closer—an old man who coughs loudly—a young boy who jostles past and brushes his arm—the never-ending laughs from everyone, haunting and taunting him— 

There his heart goes again, beating out of his chest. He blinks rapidly, tries to focus on one thing, _one person_ , but it’s all too much, too many things and too many people. He feels his lungs constricting, his heart contracting, his brain pounding intensely looking for an answer to all of this. He tries to take a deep inhale, and—there’s no air. He can’t breathe. He opens his mouth, and—he can’t speak. His eyes widen as to say, _somebody, please help me, please touch me so I know that I’m here, and I’m alive_ , but nobody does. Partly because he can’t speak, mostly because no one is paying attention, and definitely because he’s closing his eyes and sinking beneath the water, ready for whatever comes next after this. 

Somebody laughs, and he considers laughing too, laughing about how it’s all gone to waste and how all of the things he’s yet to say are gone, and he’s just the millionth among many to be gone in such a place and time. 

Except he’s not. 

Somebody’s grabbing onto him, pulling at him to come up to the surface, to breathe. He doesn’t dare open his eyes, he can’t face the unfortunate person who’s helping him, and he can’t dare explain why he’s halfway down to the bottom of the pool, or why he’s here in the first place, and why he’s _him_. But, still, they tug and tug at his limp body, bringing him up to the land once more again. 

The fresh breath of air hits him straight on. His chest heaves heavily, grasping for all the air they can get, ignoring the warm hands around his waist pulling him to the edge or the set of eyes glued at his every movement. Enough air becomes enough, and Kenma peeks open his eyes as they come to the edge of the pool and those warm hands lift him onto his feet. 

“Kenma?” Even out of the pool, he feels brittle at the voice. A warm towel wraps around him comfortingly. “Hey—calm down, _breathe_. Are you okay?” 

The universe hates Kenma. It’s why he’d panic in a public space of all places after three fine long years, why he’d almost drown, and why, all of people, Kuroo would be the one wrapping him in a towel telling him to breathe and count down. Right. Of course. Because he’s a lifeguard. And they’re at a stupid pool. Kenma just wants to go home. 

“I need to,” he struggles to find the words, “I need to be somewhere quiet… fewer people.” 

Unsurprisingly, Kuroo nods. He helps him round the edge of the pool, back past the gate where the offices are. Kuroo’s office is warm and stuffy, unbearably humid if not for the refreshing silence it brings alongside it. Kenma slumps in a spare chair across from his plastic, over-decorated desk and Kuroo does the same, watchful in a way that annoys the hell out of him. 

“What happened out there?” His voice is soft, concerned. 

“Nothing happened out there,” he says, “I was sitting there… and I felt like I getting anxious, so I went in the pool. That made me more anxious. It’s not that complicated.” 

“Yeah, but in the pool, you were—you looked like you were drowning.” Kuroo leans closer, mouth downturned into a slight frown. “Did the water make you more nervous?” 

“People make me nervous, Kuroo, not water.” Kenma doesn’t mean to sound so harsh, nor does he want to install the wary thoughts of his mild fear for bodies of waters into Kuroo’s head, but that leaves him (and the room respectively) feeling tight, boxed-in. 

“I know that,” he says, which means _I know you._ “But, you… you usually never go to the pool. Not alone, either. What happened today?” 

“I’m here with Sho,” he explains. 

“Ah,” a pause, “Hinata.” 

Kenma blinks. Kuroo blinks. The yellowing, dim light in between them blinks. Hell, the _world_ blinks. 

“Do you need a ride back home? I can tell Hinata what happened out there, he’ll understand.” 

He shakes his head. “No, I just need some time to cool off. I’m okay now. I’m fine.” But between them, _I’m fine_ really means, _this feels incredibly awkward and there’s a lot we have to say to each other, but words are hard to get out, so I’m sorry._

“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment, watching as Kuroo’s eyebrows raise slightly, then fall. “Not for this, but for—you know, our argument three weeks ago.” 

“I wasn’t ever mad, you know,” Kuroo admits, “Not at you. I mean, I understand why you were upset and everything. I should’ve told you sooner. I’m sorry.” 

Kenma nods and bites the inside of his cheek. Subconsciously, he pulls the towel around him a little tighter, looking down at his lap. 

The office is quiet. The mini fan whirs loudly from his desk. A wall clock ticks on, and on, and on. Kenma is cold, but he doesn’t bother saying anything. He wonders if Shoyo’s looking for him, asking around to see where he’s gone. He stands up, still clutching the towel around him, and turns toward the door. 

“Thanks, again,” he says, quietly. 

Kuroo waves his hand as a dismissal. “Helping is apart of the job, but being your friend isn’t,” a pause, “I just want us to be on good terms this summer before I leave.” 

_Before I leave._ “We were never on bad terms.” Kenma shifts on the balls of his heels; the tile feels cool beneath his feet. 

That makes Kuroo smile. “I guess we weren’t,” he notes, observation rather than a statement, “I’ll call later, then. To check up on you.” 

“I’ll answer.” Kenma opens the office door, looking back at the boy. “Not willingly.” 

He steps out of the office, the distant sound of Kuroo’s laugh bouncing off of his ears. He underestimated the tiny fan in there; the outside world is much warmer than before, way sunnier. He looks up, and Shoyo stands there, frowning, holding two smoothies, his DS, and his backpack slung across his shoulders. His heart melts a little. 

And so they walk home together, two teenage boys enclosed together in such a world. He drinks the smoothie Shoyo bought for him regardless, he joins the world of shoe-wearing people again, and he tells them everything that happened back there. Shoyo pouts at him like a kicked puppy, telling him he should say how he feels more, but he can’t feel the effect of his chiding. He feels relieved; he and Kuroo are okay. Everything isn’t completely lost before he leaves. 

Later that night, he calls, and Kuroo answers. 

✹ ✹ ✹ 

“You know, sandwiches aren’t that good.” 

The _clank_ of the glass plate echoes throughout the kitchen as Kuroo settles across from him, a glass of water in hand. The smell of peanut butter wafts thick through the air, alongside the aroma of his dad’s roses sitting in a crack vase on top of the refrigerator. This morning June breathes heavily onto the earth, angry and bright; the pool is closed, and Kuroo is over for the first time in weeks. 

“Stop eating them,” Kenma retorts, paying no attention to the boy across from him. 

“That’s the thing,” Kuroo says, “I can’t stop eating them. Their chemical make-up is too powerful—by law, they’re born delicious.” He pauses, taking a sip of water. “They shouldn’t be as good as they are. It’s bread and meat, but it’s addicting. I hate them for that.” 

Kenma ignores him passionately. He keeps his gaze tacked onto his laptop, clicking away on the trackpad as somebody else on the server pops up behind him. They trade goods and resources, momentarily friending each other until he pauses his game to get something to eat. At the countertop, he digs through the cabinets for a spare bowl. A warm mound lumps directly on top of his feet. 

_July_. She slinks into his arm as he leans down to pick her up. In the crease of his left arm, she paws her way up to pat and purr at his face. Kenma smiles gently. He pulls out a box of cereal from the far corner of the cabinet. 

“Hey,” Kuroo starts, looking at him, “I got an email from my college the other day.” 

_My college_. Kenma slows in his steps, letting July hop back onto the floor. He pours the cereal into the bowl as he says, “Did they finally say they didn’t mean to accept you?” 

Without looking, he can still sense the hint of a grin laced throughout his voice. “Hell no,” he says, all bark, no bite. “It was a notice on when I can move into the dorms. It’s toward late August, so I’ll probably be leaving then.” 

“Late August?” he repeats back. He thinks back to their argument four weeks ago, to the pool incident—and now, his kitchen, hearing the words he’s been dreading hearing for a while now. Kuroo Testurou is leaving when it seems he’s always been there. 

“Yeah. Two months away. That’s…” he trails off, voice going soft. “Weird.” 

Kenma patters over to the refrigerator, opening it. “I guess so,” he pauses, momentarily freezing to stare at a pint of yogurt, “What now? Are you packing?” 

“Not yet.” Kuroo picks up July from where she slinks around his ankle. “It feels too early. There are things I have to relive before I pack up and leave town.” 

“Like what?” queries Kenma. He grabs the carton of milk and shuts the refrigerator door close with his heel. 

“I don’t know. Go to our old park… revisit the ice cream shop near the carpentry store. There’s a lot to do before I go.” 

The milk pours quickly into the bowl that it overlaps the rim, spilling onto the counter. Kenma doesn’t say anything. He just stares at the counter spill with tired, blank eyes; July meows loudly at either him or Kuroo. He’s not exactly sure. 

“Kenma,” the low drawl of his voice is dangerous, sincere, “will you make me a promise?” 

“Not if it’s stupid.” 

A laugh erupts from Kuroo, and the creak of the chair echoes behind it as he stands up to join him at the counter. July jumps from him around, pooling around their ankles. 

“I don’t think it’s stupid, but you might think it is.” He latches onto his gaze attached to the milk puddle. “This summer, even if I don’t get to revisit everything I want to, from work, or deep procrastination, or memories—whatever is, I just want one thing.” That familiar line of silence laced throughout the kitchen. “I want you to make it my best summer yet.” 

Kenma’s breath hitches in his chest, his stomach churning away within him. His fingers subconsciously grip the edge of the counter, knuckles turning white. 

“I don’t make promises like that,” he mumbles quietly amidst the silence. He swivels on his heels to grab a napkin for the spill. Really, he doesn’t want to look at Kuroo—his angular face and the stupid grin he always seems to sport. Better yet, if it’s made an appearance, he doesn’t want to see his pouty face. 

“I know,” breathes Kuroo, leaning against the counter. “But I’m not mad about it. I’m not worried.” 

“Okay. What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, meeting the boy’s eyes. He hates that he has to look up at Kuroo, not in front of him, or below him. He hates that Kuroo is giant in height and he’s painfully average, that Kuroo is smiling at him annoyingly gentle just like at the pool last week, how in not two, three, four years, but two months Kuroo Tetsurou will be away from him for the first time in a decade. He hates many, many, many things. 

“It means that I have faith in you,” he explains, “that you’ll make this my best summer yet, whether you try to or not.” 

✹ ✹ ✹ 

Over the years, Kenma supposes there have been a plethora of things he once loved alone, but are no longer his now. Such things like Mario Kart on his DS (Kuroo fell in love with it during one productive lunch in third grade), oatmeal raisin cookies (Kuroo was afraid of eating raisins till the ripe age of twelve), or _The Newlywed Game_ (Kuroo likes pointing out which couples obviously have no chemistry together). None of those things are his anymore; they’re KenmaandKuroo’s interests, _their_ interests. 

Kenma just happened to forget about this one. 

He bites down on the inside of his cheek softly as he swipes the screen down with his thumb. _Osada and Kumagai_. The YouTube channel sticks out like a sore thumb among the other old subscriptions—abandoned, untouched. He hasn’t watched one of their videos in years; time’s passed on without a single thought of the two young women. 

Osada and Kumagai were YouTubers he and Kuroo liked when they were younger. Two best friends in their twenties set on conquering the feats of adulthood together. They had a sturdy, unwavering bond that Kenma liked to believe him and Kuroo would grow up like; the charming, admirable one alongside the witty, observing one. It seems he must’ve thought wrong about both of those things. Because, apparently, Osada and Kumagai are no longer a duo pair. No OsadaandKumagai anymore. Just Osada _and_ Kumagai. 

Kenma clicks on the breakup video— _We Are Longer Doing YouTube Together_ —adjusting his position on the bed. The late afternoon sun shines just above his hair onto his headboard; July is quiet, welcoming. The video opens to a wide room with the two women sitting beside each other, Osada (now platinum blonde) with a multilayered autumn outfit, and Kumagai in a crop top and pants with cool, funky socks. Osada speaks first. 

_“So, hello… I know the title is a dead giveaway to this video, but—”_ He winces, skipping forward to the essentials of the video. _“…and I just want to say this from my heart, no sugarcoating it: friends grow apart. You outgrow each other, find different interests, new hobbies, new girlfriends, boyfriends, and that’s okay. Kumagai Mariko is my best friend forever in my heart forever, even though we’re not best friends anymore. I’ll love her forever.”_

The universe has a cruel way of letting messages come through to Kenma. If everything is a sign, ignorantly subtle or impossibly loud, then this is a punch in a jaw with Armageddon initiating in the background. Osada and Kumagai are no longer the unbreakable best friends. Kuroo is heading to college out of the city in town months, leaving Kenma alone to his own lonely devices. It doesn’t take a genius to connect the dots—he’s getting swallowed up in the rush of growing up, the terrible ache of friendships, the terrifying prospects of being alone. 

Kenma turns off his phone and lets it flop beside him. He stares up at the ceiling longingly. Or blankly. A mixture of both, he thinks. 

He ponders back to the morning in the kitchen all those days ago, what Kuroo had asked him to promise, yet he couldn’t do. _It means that I have faith in you._ What does that mean? Why was he so vague? Why, of all people, does Kuroo Tetsurou have to be his unfortunately fortunate best friend? Why does Kenma feel like he’s losing his mind in the calmest way possible? 

His phone rings beside him. He answers. 

“Hey.” It’s Kuroo, of course. His voice bumps along the humming road, the same way it always does when he’s driving. 

He presses his phone to his ear, laying on his side. “Hey.” 

“I just got off of work, and I was heading home, but my grandpa called and told me the farmer’s market downtown opened today,” he says. “You’ve been a few times, right? With your mom?” 

He blinks. “Yeah. What about it?” 

“Well, I was thinking, since it’s only—two? Three? The day’s still open for us to hang out and drive down there if you’re up for it.” 

He considers it, but not really. He already knows his answer. “Would you pay?” 

“Only if you’re willing to tag along.” 

Kenma does, in fact, tag along. Kuroo picks him up a little after half an hour, blasting music from his car like nobody’s business. His mom waves to him from inside the doorway and Kuroo waves back like they’re old friends of sorts. He sits in the passenger seat flicking through the old CDs he harbors in the glove box, and they continue whatever can be drawn out about last week’s sandwich discussion. Kuroo taps his fingers on the leather steering wheel, he always subconsciously twists the broken radio knob, and he almost gets them lost on the highway. Everything is nice. Kenma almost forgets about Osada and Kumagai. 

The farmer’s market is beautiful in its glory. They stroll amongst middle-aged mothers and indie college students, bypassing concerning and endearing amounts of house plants and cute fruits and veggies stands ran by sweet, older folks. Kuroo buys him handcrafted jewelry from one of the stands, and he buys him a few shirts to wear when he’s away at college. 

By the end of it, they end up crashing in his car eating a few of the samples they handed out as they walked past. Kenma sucks on some organic popsicle that tastes like cantaloupe. Kuroo eats a mini fruit bowl. 

“We should do this again,” admits Kenma quietly, licking a stripe up the popsicle. 

“Yeah,” he sounds wistful, something he hates and loves, “we really should.” 

It doesn’t feel like how other people say it. _We should do this again_. Most never attempt to do it again. They get swept up in the waves of life, and if one party doesn’t forget, the other does, and it’s a series of forgotten promises that follow after. When Kenma says it, he doesn’t feel like he’s clinging onto something that can’t stay. It feels like an unbreakable promise—the clairvoyant future. 

Something tells him Kuroo feels the same way. 

✹ ✹ ✹ 

“My dad wants to take this swing down,” Kuroo starts, swing creaking underneath his willowy body. “He says it’ll be taking up space in his garden after we leave.” 

Kenma looks up from his lap, over to the other side of the yard where the expanse of Mr. Kuroo’s garden sits—bright, blossoming, and fragrant. His fingers twine themselves around the cool metal holding him up, and he casts his gaze back down to his lap; his feet, really, barefoot against the soft grass. 

“Your grandpa can use it,” Kenma retorts, making the other boy laugh loudly. 

“I guess my dad wasn’t thinking about Gramps,” he says, humming quietly to himself. He steadies himself back against the grass with the tips of his toes, then he lets go, flying forward into the air. The swing-set moans with every swing he takes, creaking just like it did when they were kids, each groan a warning for its impending, closing death. 

When he finally stops swinging, Kuroo is smiling stupidly. He heaves a heavy, deep breath—a sigh of relief or exhaustion—and he keeps his gaze locked onto the patio’s backdoor; glass screen stiff, unmoving. Kenma suspects he might be watching the mirage of a ghost, a long-gone memory of who lived here once, decades ago. A breeze settles between them, strong but solemn. Kuroo looks back at him, less happy than before. 

“When I was a kid, I used to love swinging here and trying to jump off far enough to reach those doors,” breathes Kuroo, “I never made it, obviously, but… there was a rush about always trying to reach something that seemed unattainable, you know? And now, I just realized I never get to try to jump after those doors again.” 

Kenma loosens his grip on the metal. “Do you _want_ to reach the doors?” he lilts, meeting his eyes. 

“No, not really. I think… it was more about the thought of reaching them than the actual thing. I was always afraid that that was as far as I could jump,” he admits, looking from Kenma’s eyes, to his nose, to his lips. Kenma says nothing; the world is incandescently quiet. “I’m afraid of going to college, Kenma. I don’t know if I’m ready.” 

His eyes widen faintly, as Kuroo continues. “I guess, I’ve always known this moment was coming, but I never could imagine it before. When I first got my acceptance email in Match, I was—I was _exuberant_. I was so happy that I was accepted into a school I really wanted. But also… I was scared of leaving.” Kenma bites the inside of his cheek, softly. “I still am scared.” 

“It’s not a bad thing to be scared,” Kenma admits, looking down at the glowing green grass beneath them. “It only matters how you plan on overcoming it—why you believe college is worth leaving town for.” 

Kuroo’s eyes widen, then. He looks surprised. 

“College is worth leaving town for,” a pause, “But there are just things in town that aren’t worth leaving—my dad, my grandma, Gramps, working as a lifeguard, all of our friends, _you_.” 

_You_. Kenma’s heart pounds against his ribcage, feeling a little out of breath. “I think some things are worth it.” 

“I don’t know if it’s worth it yet. If I really want it.” A bird chirps from the old, gnarled maple tree beside them. It smells like pine, like summer. “Kenma, do you know what you want?” 

The words strike him deep in his chest. _Does_ he know what he wants? Everything inside his brains whirs at a million light-years, unsure of what to say. After a moment, he opens his mouth, saying, “I don’t know what I want.” 

Kuroo watches him carefully, not taking his time to frown like he expects him to, but instead—he smiles. “You know, that’s okay, too.” 

“You think so?” 

“ _Yeah_ ,” he says, “I mean, I think a lot of people—adults—expect us to know what we want in life by now. Feeling unsure about it is alright. I think it’s like you said, being scared is okay. It’s all about how we work past it.” 

Kenma looks down at his feet, then to his stray shoes across the yard. He hasn’t walked barefoot in Kuroo’s yard since they were kids. Kuroo hasn’t swung on this swing-set since they were kids. Things all around seem to be changing, but nothing terrible has struck him deep yet. Maybe not at all. There a million things he has to say—things he wants to do, things that should absolutely terrify him. But none of those things seem to matter right now. 

So, he does what everyone else does in dire, complicated times when nothing seems clear: he smiles. 

✹ ✹ ✹ 

July settles much calmer and lighter than June. 

For the most part, without Shoyo around to keep him company on the days he’s stuck working at Miyazaki’s Ice Cream Emporium, he wagers his time in between spending time at home or at the poolside with Kuroo. If not harboring himself inside of Kuroo’s uncomfortably warm, cluttered office, spending time with him on his breaks, or his lunch, he sits at the poolside at the table and doubles between playing on his PSP or watching him at work. 

Lifeguards, he knows now, do everything else _besides_ saving people. 

“Again! Do it again!” One of the kids hoarded around Kuroo’s legs jumps up and down, utterly excited as the older boy dries off his wet hair with a spare towel. The other kids jump up and down, sharing that same glinting look in their eyes; Kuroo grins, looking up at toward him. 

“Diving again? Really?” The kids all jump up, yelling _of course!_ “I think I’ll let Kenma decide. What do you think? Should I dive in again for them? 

All the kids turn to Kenma, eyes wide with eagerness and childhood zest. With their wide, hungry eyes peering into his soul, he doesn’t feel as naked as he does underneath the gaze of anyone else. Children are the purest of the world, the ones who don’t truly judge anyone. Kenma finds that more endearing than he can say. 

He levels his gaze from the kids’ to Kuroo’s, tease apparent in his tone. “I don’t know… make it a surprise for all of us.” 

Tiny voices rise into the air supporting this idea wholeheartedly. Kuroo sighs, letting out a rehearsed, exasperated breath. “ _Well_ , if Kenma says I should make it a surprise…” All the kids stand on their tippy-toes, heart beating in anticipation. “I’ll do it!” 

Everyone, including Kuroo, yells in excitement at his approval—the following patters of tiny sandals against concrete sounds soon after, the kids trailing Kuroo back around to the diving board like a persistent line of little ducklings. They all pool around the diving board ladder as Kuroo climbs upward, _ooh_ s and _ahh_ s already resonant below him. 

At the top of the diving board, Kuroo stands upright, steadying himself. The sun sits at the top of the sky today, sweltering in its early July glory, a distinct vividness framing along everyone able to bask in it. His damp skin glistens beneath the sunlight, bare chest rising, then falling, rising, falling. Something unruly twitches deep within Kenma’s stomach; his eyebrows raise on their own accord, surprised by something so seemingly natural. He inhales sharply to brush away the thought. 

Kuroo strides forward a few steps, staring down at the clear aquamarine abyss. Before diving head-first, he looks down and over at Kenma. The curl of his lip tilts upward into that vexing, terrible grin he knows he despises. The older boy turns back to the world ahead of him. The world counts down on its own accord, slow and intent. _One... two... three..._ He jumps. He flies from the diving board into the air, body contrasting against the very laws of nature. If this was a movie, the world would be shot in slow-mo; a second taking on a minute, the slow roll of his body flipping in the air casually, the enamored screams after. 

The splash of his body into the water echoes throughout the entire pool. A few adults from nearby clap for him. Kenma finds himself infatuated with the view of him wading around through the pool, grinning wildly at the group of children. Something about it—the late afternoon July haze, the kneading, doughy feeling building up in his chest, his slight, ever-present endearment. 

He _likes_ watching him dive for them. 

Kuroo climbs up out of the pool, high-fiving his mini entourage. When they disperse to play with each other elsewhere, he heads over toward his table, smiling, not grinning. Kenma rolls his eyes looking away. 

“Hey,” he starts, grabbing the limp towel off the edge of the seat across from him, “cool flip, right?” 

“You’re a show-off.” 

“You said to make it a surprise.” Kuroo ruffles his hair dry. “I was following simple orders.” 

“You just like kids feeding your ego.” 

He sighs wistfully, plopping himself adjacent to Kenma. “Just a little. _But_ , in my defense, I did it more because they liked seeing it rather than because they feed my ego.” 

Kenma looks back at his phone, unamused. Kuroo speaks on his own accord. 

“My shift’s over in thirty. I’m heading back home, but you can come if you want,” he says, looking out toward the rowdy pool. 

He glances up momentarily. “I’m hungry.” 

“That can be arranged.” 

✹ 

The city is beautiful in the summer. 

All around them green hazes over like an inescapable fever dream. Most grass, outside of people’s yards, is wily and overgrown, honeybees buzzing near and far. Kenma walks beside Kuroo silently (not entirely, like June, July never is void of sound), tapping away at some game on his phone. Kuroo smells like chlorine and aloe lotion; the world rocks beneath their feet. 

“Today was nice,” states Kuroo, glancing upward at the wispy, clear clouds. “Don’t you think so?” 

He responds, “I know it was hot.” 

“What? Me, or the weather?” He glances over at Kenma, light glinting off his eyes reflectively. The sun kisses his face gently. 

“You’re hilarious,” Kenma says, monotonous, but can’t defer the sliver of a smile winding upon his face. What better is there to do? He’s gotten the stupidest best friend in the entire world. 

“I think today was really good,” he admits. “It wasn’t boring like usual. The only kids who come in and talk to me are the ones who convinced their friends to climb over the gates until they got stuck or something. Today was a nice change.” 

The two of them skip over the cracked sidewalk leading up to the gates surrounding the Kuroos’ property. Kuroo creaks open the gate himself, letting the view of their quaint house and captivating yard open into view. 

As much as he’s been over, his home feels enough like Kenma’s second home. The relieving sense of familiarity and comfort settles onto him—the chipped paint on the right side of the house, just underneath the bathroom window. The rose bushes Kuroo’s dad has kept in tip-top shape as long as he’s lived here. The creaky, worn swing-set they sat on together days ago. The sacred, gnarled maple tree in the corner of the yard him and Kuroo etched their names on when they were respectively thirteen. All of it feels like walking into an unforgettable memory. 

“Today wasn’t bad.” His eyes find themselves still glued onto the ancient maple tree, unmoving. 

Kuroo stops short alongside him, looking forward toward the lone tree. And for a moment, it’s quiet between them. They say nothing, the world says nothing, and it’s just two best friends staring at a tree that binds them together. 

_Huh_ , Kenma thinks suddenly, _that seems so long ago._

Kuroo blinks away first, crossing through the yard in the direction of his dad’s garden. Without much hesitation, he reaches down by the sprouting vegetables, plucking tomatoes off their stems one-by-one, gathering them in a makeshift basket from the hem of his shirt. Kenma stares at the overflowing bundle of tomatoes dropping from his shirt into the grass. He waits for the other boy to notice them, or say something, yet—he doesn’t. Kenma blinks. 

Without much else to do, he joins him. 

He gathers the fallen tomatoes into his shirt’s lifted hem, the same as Kuroo, plucking tomatoes off the stem carefully as not to damage them. Something about it doesn’t feel as unfit as he imagines it to be. Tomato-by-tomato, their hands brush along each other’s as they dig through the soft soil plucking as many tomatoes as they can. By the end of it, when they’ve grabbed as many ripe ones as possible, the two of them hurry through yard, past the patio, and the kitchen to set them down. 

“My dad wanted me to harvest them for days now,” Kuroo says, grabbing two large bowls for the fruits to settle in. “I kept putting it off, but I’m glad I remembered. There’s a dish I really like that I think you’ll appreciate.” 

Kenma washes his hand at the kitchen sink, picking off stray pieces of soil and grass. “It’s not a sandwich, is it?” 

“ _No_ ,” he bundles the tomatoes in two either bowl, swiveling half-way to look at Kenma, “it’s not a sandwich. It’s a good lunch my grandma makes for me sometimes.” 

Grandma Kuroo, throughout their intertwined childhoods, has been the cook of a lifetime. And Kuroo, as a doting, attentive grandson, vowed—many, many, years ago—to take on her chef legacy. Kuroo Tetsurou doesn’t break promises. Kuroo Tetsurou (unsurprisingly) also doesn’t give up very easily. It’s why, now, after thousands of failed meals, he’s a solid cooking amateur. So Kenma trusts him. A little. 

“I’ll snitch to her if it’s not good,” he teases, drying his hands off, “Just a warning.” 

Kuroo grins wildly at him, gripping the edge of the table. One that’s stupidly _his_ , and nobody else’s. Kenma hates it. 

“Fair deal.” 

He gets to work quickly, chopping up tomatoes and rummaging through cabinets, his eyes following each swift movement of his calloused hands dancing around. The sink runs and the knife chops, all while Kuroo hums quietly to himself mindlessly the way he always does. Kenma also observes the way he always does, listening to his heart thumping away in his chest, tugging at the hem of his shorts, smelling the citrus aroma of lemons wafting around. 

For a moment, he thinks about how this might never happen again after today. 

“Hey,” Kuroo glances back while setting vegetables in the pan. 

“Hey,” he repeats back, watching the outline of his back carefully. 

“Hung out with Bo last weekend—we went to the movies and stuff, talked about college and whatnot. But he mentioned that he was holding a sleepover for all his friends before he left, and he mentioned that you’re invited if you’re interested.” 

Kenma’s eyebrows furrow together. “Sleepover?” 

“Yeah,” the meat sizzles in the pan, “like a fun night at his house where we watch movies, do prank calls, play truth or dare. You know—the _essentials_.” 

“Truth or dare? We’re not twelve-year-olds.” 

“It can still be fun! I think we had lots of fun when we were twelve,” he says, “But that’s not the point of me bringing it up. The point is that he asked if you wanted to come or not. It’d be really fun. I’m pretty sure Hinata’s gonna be there.” 

_Sho_. Kenma’s heart skips a beat. “Who else?” 

“Akaashi, obviously. A few of his other friends and volleyball teammates. Me, Hinata, Tsukki…” he trails off. “And you. If you’re up for it.” 

_No, thanks_ , he thinks but doesn’t say aloud. Sleepovers weren’t much of his thing growing up. Being in other people’s houses at night—alone and quiet, sucked into his DS, casually ignored by everyone else having fun—was the opposite of anything ideal he imagined. Of course, things would be different now. Unlike then, he has friends who keep him dear company; people who love him, people who _like_ him. The details are small, but they matter—immensely. 

He looks down at his t-shirt, a graphic design of a little pixel bird falling out of a tree. Sho will be there. He inhales. _Only one more month_. 

“I’ll go,” he mumbles softly after a moment, “but you have to pick me up and take me home.” 

Kuroo laughs, broad shoulders shaking. “Kenma, you strike a hard bargain, but I like that about you. It’s one of your endearing traits—my best friend’s failed his driver’s test three times.” 

“You’re annoying,” he pauses, rolling his eyes, “And terrible.” 

“I guess that’s my endearing trait.” 

Lunch ends up being one of the best Kenma’s had in months. They sit together at the table, eating quietly. The tapping of the chopsticks against each other. A shrill cry of a warbler outside. The low, inaudible hum of the air conditioner kicking on from nearby. His legs jutted out against Kuroo’s own. When each of their chopsticks finally hit their plates, Kuroo glances up and does what he knows best. 

He grins. 

✹ ✹ ✹ 

Kenma hasn’t been to a sleepover in five years. 

After a while, the idea of attending them felt useless. He never enjoyed them no matter how much he convinced himself to, and the majority of the time, his insomnia left him sleepless throughout the night if sleeping in a stranger’s house surrounded by a bunch of random kids wasn’t enough of a worry. 

But today is different. 

Kuroo stalks up to the door, slugging his backpack on his shoulder to ready his opposite hand to knock. He trails on his heels, clutching the strap of his backpack tightly, looking down at the narrowing flowered hedges leading to the porch. 

Kuroo knocks softly on the door, grinning widely when Bokuto opens up, smiling just as wide. He clutches him in a hug, yelling out, “Tetsu!” Bokuto’s eyes widen at the sight of him. “Kenma! I knew you’d come.” 

Unsure of what to say, he nods feebly but regrets it soon after because Bokuto reaches out to tug him forward into the hug, his chest pressed against Kuroo’s hazardous broad backside. Kenma wiggles away (luckily) as Bokuto nudges them inside to take off their shoes, but a familiar voice freezes him in his steps. 

“Bokuto? Where are your chips—? Kenma!” 

Shoyo engulfs him in a bone-crushing hug as he skips over, wringing his arms around his neck. Like always, the sweet, alluring chamomile scent hits him from the crook of Shoyo’s neck. Without realizing, his heart rate slows down—his shoulders unwind, the white in his knuckles disappear. 

“I told you I was coming,” he mumbles, voice muffled by the fabric of Shoyo’s shirt. 

“Yeah! But that doesn’t mean I can’t be happy to see you.” He pulls away, holding Kenma at arm’s length, face-to-face. His lips curl into the warm smile they always do, more lip than anything, but just as impactful as teeth are in a smile. 

They let go of each other, following Kuroo and Bokuto into the living room. As most are, the living room is a quaint thing; plush, grey sofas and throw pillows, cotton blue curtains, paintings, and family frames hanging from the walls. Nobody surrounds the room like he expects them to, but Bokuto answers his curiosities, as he says, “We’re all in the basement—follow me.” 

They traverse through his house together, bypassing the kitchen, bathroom, and an assortment of bedrooms, until Bokuto leads them down a flight of creaky stairs grows softer with each step as the voices and music grow louder. When the basement finally comes into the view, Kenma blinks. 

Only a handful of people sit around on lounge couches similar to the living room sofas, talking and laughing with each other. The only one who seems to be content by themselves is Akaashi; he flips through a magazine, their presence unbeknownst to him. When Bokuto steps completely into the space, he looks up. 

“Akaashi! They’re here!” 

He lowers his magazine, sending them a greeting nod. “Hey, Kuroo. Kozume.” 

Kenma nods back, quiet. Akaashi has always been someone he’s admired in a distant, hard-to-wraparound way; his silence comes from a place of preference, not fear, something he’s worked on achieving for years but never has (or will—the possibility seems dwindling) achieved yet. Maybe Akaashi thinks the same of him. Possibly. Maybe. 

Bokuto patting him on the shoulder snaps him away from his longing view at the boy. 

“Hey, I’m getting a few more snacks for the night, but you two are free to sit around and watch a movie or something. Your choice!” 

“Okay,” he speaks slowly, “cool.” 

He walks forward and sits on the edge of the couch, setting down his backpack. His Meowth keychain on the zipper jangles against the soft carpet. He counts his breath by two’s, not ones, just to feel asserted in his skin. 

“Everything good?” 

Kenma meets Kuroo’s eyes looming above him. His pupils and nose seem to be warmly shadowed by the light above them. One of his eyebrows is raised, curious. 

“Everything’s cool,” he says, “I’m cool.” 

“That doesn’t _sound_ like something someone cool would say,” he taunts, which makes Kenma rolls his eyes. “ _Joking_. I’m joking.” 

He snaps, “I know you are.” 

Surprisingly, he says nothing back in return like Kenma expects him to. Maybe because I know you are sounds awfully close to _I know you_. He suspects that a lot of their conversations lately have been unexpected, different than before. Kenma’s not sure what that means for them. Or him. Possibly, maybe, perhaps—the world. 

Kenma’s mind drifts back to that day in his kitchen. That seems like a million years ago, almost. He supposes summer does that to you after a while. 

✹ 

As July evenings go, the night passes on in a blur. 

Bokuto came back with snacks a little later after they arrive, urging them to watch a few movies as a group together. That led to Shirofuku recommending that she and Akaashi bake cookies, which turned into a group ordeal together. Kenma _accidentally_ spilled batter on Kuroo, and Kuroo _accidentally_ got some on his nose, but by the end of it they wound up with a giant tub of chocolate chip cookies. Which, turns out, was a great snack for prank calling. Shoyo, Kuroo, and Bokuto tasked themselves with searching for random numbers online, and he and Tsukishima ended up being just unfortunate enough to pull off the calls. 

For a final time, Shoyo suggested that they watch a movie together—a scary one—but it happened to be much triter rather than horrifying in the case that after an hour everyone was left was snoring to themselves. 

Except for him. 

Kenma lays underneath a heap of blankets on the floor, thumbing away at his PSP silently. The room coats itself in darkness, save from the dimmed TV light and the illuminated blue from his screen. The game he’s playing is an old one—one he’s beaten thousands of times before, but can’t persuade himself to beat once and for all. Tonight’s not the night for winning. Only for playing and beating the same mobs he’s grown accustomed to seeing. 

“That’s not good for your eyes, you know.” 

Kenma stiffens in place as his thumbs lose control of the buttons. He looks over to the left of him, catching the glint of those same hazel pupils. Kuroo blinks, moving away the two pillows covering either side of his face, angling them to see him properly in the dark. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be asleep?” he snaps faintly, watching his character crumple to the pixel ground as the black screen follows, reading: GAME OVER. 

The older boy ignores him, continuing on to say, “Blue light is _killer_ on your eyes, Kenma. Looking at a screen in the dark is bad as is, but for hours on end? I predict you’ll be poorly sighted, possibly blind, by the time you’re sixty. Me, on the other hand? My twenty-twenty vision’s lasting me to my grave.” 

“Go back to sleep,” he urges, rolling his eyes, “I’m not blind.” 

“Yet. That’s the keyword you’re looking for— _yet_.” 

“You’re the only one who’d wake up to bother me,” he exasperates, setting the handheld device on his stomach, “about something as stupid as _blue light_.” 

“Blue light’s not _stupid_. It’s a very real issue in these modern times full of technological advancements,” Kuroo argues, smiling teasingly as he adds on, “It’s time to wake up and fix the underlying issues, Kenma.” 

“It’s not my issue to fix. Maybe yours, but not mine.” The game screen flickers off, leaving the basement a little darker. Kuroo’s presence weighs warm and ever-present beside him. 

“I guess you’re right. It’s kind of my thing now.” The room is quiet, then. Neither of them says anything for a moment or two. “But—you never asked why.” 

His eyebrows cease to form a small knot. “‘Why’ what?” 

“Why I’m awake,” he pauses, “Why we’re talking.” 

“We’re taking because _you_ won’t go back to sleep. It’s your own reasoning why you’re awake right now. Nothing to do with me.” 

Slowly, unsure, he asks, “What if it has everything to do with you?” 

The room falls to silence again. Kenma blinks at the dark, far-off ceiling, then he turns to blink at Kuroo—a less dark, still far-off thing. Softly, he asks, “What does that mean?” 

“I don’t know—let’s think. You’re up all night playing games like you always do which should be normal, but _isn’t_ because lately you’ve been sleeping better, but the night you’re at someone else’s house with other people, you spend the night playing games.” When Kenma only blinks, mouth agape in the place where words should be, he adds on, “That doesn’t make sense. Well, it _does_ make sense. Just… very convoluted sense.” 

When the words finally set in, he blinks, then states, “I think I got the point of that whole rant, summarized: you’re a creep who’s been watching me sleep.” The last few words come out as half-formed words, colliding with his soft, muffled laughs. 

“First of all, I’m not a creep,” he retorts, in between laughs, “I’m an _observer_. Two different—very different things, okay? And second, you shouldn’t be able to insult me so willingly. I’m concerned about you and you make fun of me for that. How crude.” 

Something distantly close, nearing closer and closer chimes in his chest. He promptly looks back up at the ceiling, away from his eyes, then down past them, at his cheekbones. Kuroo Tetsurou has very nice cheekbones. That’s a definitive statement; his bones arch and twirl, his muscles stretch and contort, but it’s one of his nicer features. Not his grin. Especially not his grin. 

Definitely not the grin he’s wearing right now. 

Kenma sighs, defeated. “Sorry,” he exhales limply. “Is that an acceptable apology for my actions?” 

“I don’t want an apology.” The words spring him back to the pool—that morning, his office, the whirring fan, the warm, plastic chairs. “I just want to know if you’re as cool as you claimed earlier. Are you still a cool cat?” 

“Again. We’re not twelve, so _no_ , I’m not a ‘cool cat’,” he claims, “I’m fine. I’m… good, actually.” 

“You’re good?” Kuroo asks softly. His tone tilts on something indescribable, not exactly surprise or disbelief, something… different. 

“Yeah. I’m good.” The words don’t feel as faulty as he imagines them to be; the world is always spiraling, always falling, but lately—lately, his footing feels firm among the chaos. He can stop, catch his breath, _breathe_. 

Almost a murmur, he whispers, “That’s really good. No, it’s—that’s great. That makes me feel better.” 

Kenma doesn’t say anything for a while. In the dwindling blue light from the TV, he watches Kuroo stare at the ceiling, chest rising and falling with each soft breath. His eyes are already half-closed, eyelashes fanned against his cheeks, eyelids drooped low. 

There are other features of his Kenma likes. 

His smooth face that’s never once fallen victim to pubescent acne. The crescent-shaped scratch just near his hairline from where he fell in the woods when he was eleven. His gentle, calloused hands that cook meals for those he loves, the ones that save people down at the pool, the same ones that help his dad garden on days he’s off. His terrible, stupid bed hair that abides by its laws of physics all the time, no greater enemy than a brush itself. 

He blinks. Kuroo is fast asleep again. 

And Kenma is watching him snore like a creep. How funny. The thought almost makes him laugh. Almost. But he doesn’t. He just turns to look back at the dark, unclear future ahead of him. A future alone for once. 

✹ ✹ ✹ 

“Do you think people ever get tired of leaving their swim trunks and swimsuits laying around all the time?” 

Kuroo holds a damp pair by the tips of his finger and thumb, grimacing as he throws it in a plastic bin alongside the rest of the abandoned swimsuits. Kenma glances up from where he sits at the edge of the pool, his calves dipped into the cool clarion water. The pool is incandescently quiet; the day is over, the people went home, all that’s left is water and the inescapable smell of chlorine. The sun dwindles just below the horizon, dark and light all at once. 

He snorts, saying, “No. Probably not.” 

“Well, maybe they should start caring,” he lugs the bin over to the side, just before joining beside him, “Cause this job is _gross_.” 

He moves his feet around in the water, the lights below illuminating. Kuroo’s feet join side-by-side near his, both of them staring down at the edge of the pool. 

“Is that why Yaku never closes up now?” he asks. 

“No, he likes being able to get home and fall asleep early,” he explains, then adds, “Or he enjoys watching me suffer.” 

“He’s got the right idea.” 

“Harsh, Kenma. Truly— _harsh_ ,” he complains. “But I guess it doesn’t matter anyway. In a few weeks, I’ll be hanging everything up for good.” 

_I’ll be hanging up everything for good._ Kenma glances up at the boy, something finally clicking into place as it should. Kuroo Tetsurou is leaving in only a matter of weeks. Each moment they spend together is only a matter of seconds, minutes, hours they have left before they’re separated by miles and highways and indisputable loneliness. August has a funny way of making itself known; the world is burning up piece-by-piece. _His_ world is burning up piece-by-piece. 

“Are you getting another job on campus?” he asks, looking back down. 

“Maybe,” he ponders, “Do you think I’d be good at making coffee?” 

“Well,” Kenma starts, smile tugging at the edges of his lips, “your coffee sucks. So, no. I don’t think you’d be good at making coffee.” 

“Well to answer your question—no. I think those make up ninety percent of all campus jobs unless I, like, work at the library. I guess I’ll end up doing that cause I heard dorm life can be kinda brutal without money.” 

It’s nothing Kenma would know about. He’s not the one going to college, after all. So, he says nothing. Only keeps staring at the bottom abyss of the pool. 

The poolside is awfully quiet. Not the bad kind. The… _different_ kind. If that kind exists. Kenma’s not sure anymore—the big things, the small things, they’re all blending in together. Maybe because they’re becoming the same thing, anyway. 

Suddenly, out of the blue, Kuroo stands up, slugging off his red track jacket to reveal his lifeguard shirt and shorts. Without a moment of hesitation, as the jacket lands somewhere near the changing building, he makes a running start to jump into the water. The sunken _splash!_ resounds throughout his vicinity as he cringes back to avoid the water droplets from aiming at his face. 

Kuroo shakes his head wildly like an untamable dog, looking up to smile at Kenma with his straight, neat-cut smile. “The water’s nice. You should come in with me.” 

“No, thanks,” he answers, grimacing at the sight of such a lone person surrounded by tons of water. He went to the beach once with his parents when he was younger and he hated it. Even when his mom held his hand, urging him to watch the surfers just arms-length away wasn’t enough. He kept watching the tide pull at his ankles, kept listening to the rasp of the waves and the loud yells and chatter, never-ending _laughter_. He ended up silently crying, asking to go home even though he knew he ruined it. His parents swore he didn’t ruin it, but they’ve never gone back to the beach since. 

Swimming’s not Kenma’s thing. Water can be too many things at once. 

“Really? Not even for a minute?” 

“Yeah. Not even for a minute.” 

“There’s no need to be nervous about anything. I _am_ a lifeguard after all. How safe can you besides that?” 

“You’re a lifeguard on the brink of retirement,” he snaps back. “I don’t feel safe with retirees promising to save me in emergencies.” 

“Suit yourself,” Kuroo throws his hands up, “I can be just fine with a pool to myself and no dear friends to join me.” 

He splashes back into the water, moving his legs forward to lay in dead man’s pose. The boy lays on his back, stares up at the sky, and he says nothing. The sky is blanketed in blues, oranges, pinks. It’s everything that makes a summer evening worth it; cicadas scream on their tall branches for a distant lover, crickets chirp from within the overgrown bright grass, Kenma relives everything that feels so far away sometimes. The essence of being. He never can catch it when he wants to. 

Kenma shut his eyes close, trying to conjure up what he imagines pure bliss feels like—laying on a cloud, looking down at the world from the highest mountain, find a key to yourself that you were always afraid was meant to stay locked forever. _Inhale_ , he thinks, _exhale_. Kenma opens his eyes. 

Then he gets into the pool. 

The water is not _nice_ like Kuroo said it was. It’s cold; the feeling reaches up from his feet to his neck, sending his arms to wrap all the way around him protectively. Begrudgingly, he wades across the pool as Kuroo sits straight up, the same idiot grin spreading across his face at the sight. 

“You’re a huge liar,” Kenma starts, swimming in front of him, “It’s freezing.” 

“The water’s always freezing—that’s the way it is,” he explains, shrugging. “It’s just a little warmer today since it’s the peak of summer and all.” 

He rolls his eyes, moving his arms around to stay afloat. He tries not to look below him, only at his best friend above him; his shirt clings to him tightly, soaked, and his upright hair is soggy. He’s afraid he might look the same. 

“Why’d you join me, anyway? I thought you were interested in swimming.” 

“I’m not.” 

“But you _are_ ,” he retorts, voice leaning in the teasing tone he always uses. 

“I’m swimming because I decided I want to. Is that a good explanation for you?” he asks. 

“Nope,” he says, “cause I never asked for one in the first place.” 

_He’s annoying,_ Kenma thinks suddenly, exhaling deeply in an exasperated sort of way. Kuroo Tetsurou is annoying. But it’s not a terrible thing. Neither is it a miracle. It’s… different. _He’s_ different. Hell, the _world_ is different. 

Kuroo swims closer to him, edging so close he breaks whatever personal space bubble that’s supposed to exist between people. This close, Kenma can smell the heavy chlorine on him and the faint vanilla and ylang-ylang cologne—another favorite of his father’s. His chest is almost knee-high to his eyes, and he promptly wonders if pushing him down underneath the surface would be a viable method of annoyance relief. 

As the water ripples beneath them, and a bird cries from far away, Kuroo says, “I’m leaving on the twentieth. Of this month—obviously. I started packing this weekend, so if there’s anything of mine you might want before I leave you can drop by…” A beat. “Or I can drop by. I _am_ the one with the car after all.” 

His heart jerks in his chest uncomfortably, a chill running down the backs of his arms. “No, I don’t want anything. I’m not taking your stuff.” He doesn’t bother meeting his eyes—he can’t meet his eyes. 

“Oh.” He sounds… surprised. No—disappointed. It weighs heavy in the humid August air. “Nothing? I can’t take everything with me to the dorms, and my dad says that getting rid of childhood toys and games could help with the move a lot. I’m just… trying to prepare myself for the worst, I guess.” 

Kenma clenches his mouth, teeth digging into the edge of his tongue so harshly, when he pulls away, he tastes the iron tang right away. _Say something._ He looks down at his hands, soon-to-be pruned. _Say something_. He takes a sharp inhale, then a deep exhale, and the process continues. _SAY SOMETHING._

His head snaps upright, finally colliding eye-to-eye with Kuroo, hazel eyes watching him delicately. He blinks. Kuroo blinks. 

“I care about you,” he begins, feeling the sickly-sweet tang set in his stomach, “I care about you going to college, and moving into dorms and stuff, and I—I care about you. _All_ of you. It’s all I do.” 

The boy’s mouth unhinges slightly, as to speak, but it shuts close as soon as it opens, waiting for him to say more. 

“I shouldn’t have waited this late to tell you that. I waited—shit, I waited _eleven years_ to tell you that. And for that, I’m sorry. I’ve been a bad friend.” The air sits heavy on his shoulders, pressing, down, down, down, then— “I don’t know how else to say this, but I just want you to know. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had and I don’t know if I can function without you. That’s why—why we fought, and why I’ve been avoiding talking about it. And so, again, I’m sorry. You deserve something better than this before you go away.” 

His voice falters toward the end of his sentence, so fragile that he’s afraid he might break in half because he’s starting to feel like everything he says just might ultimately be him—his heart, his soul, his abhorrent, disturbing love for Kuroo Tetsurou, his best friend. 

His abhorrent, disturbing love for Kuroo Tetsurou. 

Kuroo hasn’t said anything yet. He just stares at Kenma with his charming eyes, lips downturned as to speak, but never doing so. The sun sits just above his head, ready to fall; the world is going dark. He’s inevitably losing his best friend. 

He’s going to swim away to the poolside silently, without a word to say, and dry off and grab his jacket and never speak to Kenma again. He’ll ignore all his calls for weeks on end, he won’t be able to reach his dad, or his grandma or grandpa, and he’ll miss saying goodbye, and saying _hey, I love you_ in the form of _don’t get expelled._ And it’ll just be him, alone, left with his unbearable silence and the reoccurring memories, and the terrible dread of being him. Of being the one that ruins everything. 

But— 

Kuroo doesn’t do any of that. 

His arms guide themselves around him as he pulls him so close, his face is smushed into the crook of his shoulder, chlorine flooding his nose unbearably. His head lies on the side of his neck, heavy and present the same way a weighted blanket feels on a calm night. His entire body floods with warmth, so opposite to the freezing water surrounding them. Kenma almost wants to cry. Or laugh. Maybe both. 

“You’re not a bad friend,” he whispers, feathery-light, “You’ve never been, and you never will be a bad friend.” 

He blinks rapidly, asking, “What are you doing?” 

“Doing the same thing you did.” 

“I didn’t hug you.” 

“It looked like you wanted to.” 

Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t. It doesn’t seem to matter sitting in the arms of someone Kenma’s kind-of-not-very-much-in-love-with who may or not know now that he’s spoken his mind sincerely for the first time in his life. None of it matters. All that does is his head on his shoulder, and his warm heart, and the approaching, darkening night, and the way he feels like he should be sinking underneath the water, but isn’t, because water doesn’t work that way nor does the universe. 

What is Kenma trying to say? He’s trying to say that in this harsh, terrible world full of terrible people Kuroo Tetsurou just might be the least terrible of them all. 

That’s the most terrifying thought he’s ever had. 

✹ ✹ ✹ 

They’re taking down Kuroo’s swing-set today. 

Adjacent to the old playset, Kenma stands side-by-side next to Kuroo, unmoving and silent as it challenges them fiercely (or weakly, he’s not sure), daunting as ever. The sun sits high and bright on its pedestal in the sky, a reminder that they have the rest of the day to figure this out. 

“Do you have any idea how to dismantle a swing-set?” Kuroo asks, glancing down at him. 

“No clue,” he responds. 

“Shit,” he curses, inhaling deeply to say, “I guess we should get started then.” 

The two of them get to observing the swing carefully, looking for key fixtures that could be undone with any of the tools stationed in his dad’s toolbox, finding luck when they come across a rusty hinge near the top. And so, they get to work; Kenma holds things, mostly observing, while Kuroo does the tasking work of unscrewing, dismantling, and pulling things. The set-up seems to work for a while. 

They break sometime an hour and a half later, taking a well-deserved lunch to rest and eat and cool off. Kuroo makes them sandwiches and ice-cold lemonade. They sit against the ancient maple tree, side-by-side, and eat in relative silence. 

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” Kuroo starts, glancing upward through the canopy of leaves, “Back at the pool, I mean.” 

_Oh_ , Kenma thinks sullenly. His stomach turns over unpleasantly, the same way it always does when Kuroo speaks to him now. They’ve been avoiding talking about the pool outburst—he’s been avoiding talking about the pool outburst. Vulnerability is a fragile, glass-made thing that can break in the hands of anyone around it; what he said, he means wholeheartedly, but it’s harsh to risk the possibility of the glass breaking once and for all when all he’s done is to keep protecting it. 

He nods, saying, “Yeah?” 

“I don’t know. I was just thinking about how honest you were and what it all meant—what it means still,” he explains, eyebrows forming a knot in between. “I think what I’m trying to say is,” he turns toward him, “I’m gonna miss you, Kenma. A lot. I know I haven’t admitted it entirely, but—I don’t know what comes next when I’m alone. Another four years of school, yeah, but what else? _Who_ else? I don’t want to end up like the others like us out there who’ve lost their touch and connections. Life would be total ass that way.” 

Kenma’s stomach flips entirely, then. His heart pounds against his ribcage, even harder when he agrees, saying, “Yeah. Life _would_ be total ass.” Both of them laugh softly. “But… you mean it? Really?” 

“Of course, I do!” he exasperates, grinning all the time. “I’m not fond of lying to those I cherish most.” 

_Oh god_ , he thinks. Kuroo Tetsurou just might be the death of him. Him and his dopey grin and nonsensical, crazy hair and his sturdy jaw that’s always angled toward the sun, and those terrible hazel eyes that are the same color as honey. His stupid farmer’s tan, his stupid, irritating hyena laugh. Kenma could go on forever. His— 

His very plush, probably-firm lips. 

Kenma’s staring at them. And Kuroo is staring at him. He meets his eyes slowly, blinking a few tines to focus his mind back. All the words once there seem to disappear; there’s only him, Kuroo, and the world watching them. Nothing else. His breath hitches anxiously in his throat. 

And then, like the biggest plot twist to have ever existed, Kuroo is kissing him. His hands are moving to the back of his nape, fingers carded through his hair, mouths moving on their own accord. He’s not skilled in the kissing department by any means, but there’s a rhythm to it he accustoms himself to in the few seconds it lasts. Just like a video game, there’s a certain brain-wired pattern you learn as you play the game. 

Kuroo’s lips are warm and soft, molding themselves along his in a way he’s sure he won’t be able to forget for months. Nothing about it is how heated as most imagine it to be quite yet; only lips, warmth, _feeling_. 

Kuroo pulls away first. His hands still rest as the back of Kenma’s nape, frozen, as his face falls from relief to… horror. They drop to his side quickly, as his eyes widen. 

“ _Shit_. I shouldn’t have—that wasn’t okay for me to do without asking.” He backs away a few feet staring down at his feet, avoiding Kenma’s gaze. “I’m sorry. That was… bad. I misread the situation. A lot.” 

Kenma blinks, shaking his head as to say, “Kuro, it’s alright. I’m fine. Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine too, but… that wasn’t—I shouldn’t have done that. I messed up badly.” Kuroo stands up, looking back toward the lone patio across the yard then back to him. “I think we’ve done enough for a day. I need some time alone and to finish packing. I’ll… I’ll call later, okay?” 

Kenma nods feebly, unsure of what to do or say. His lips are warm to the touch, still tingling from where they touched Kuroo’s, heart aching against his ribs like it might implode any second now. He doesn’t know why Kuroo seems so upset—why his mouth is downturned into a frown, why he looks so drained and heartbroken like a kicked puppy, why he looks disappointed again for the second time. Kenma _wants_ to know. Was the kiss bad? Did he do something wrong? Was Kuroo struck with the realization he’s not interested in kissing him? Or boys? Or anybody at all? 

The yard is empty now. It’s only him. The lovely garden. The birds. The sun. The aching, swollen heat of August. 

There couldn’t have been one thing he’s feared and more than this. Kuroo is gone, and he, inevitably, is alone. 

✹ ✹ ✹ 

Kenma despises whoever came up with the phrase _it can’t get any worse than this_ because, in fact, it always can. 

That’s what he told himself walking back home from Kuroo’s house, breathing in and out deeply to not spiral into an endless thought bubble, trying not to imagine his hands back on his hand or the smell of his neck or the taste of his lips. And for a while it worked; he got home, he changed, he ate, and called Shoyo to calm himself down and occupy his mind for a bit. He was distracted the entire time, not quite paying attention to his intricate, non-committal details he adds into his everyday stories. If Shoyo noticed, he never said anything about it. 

The rest of the day he was left anxiously waiting for Kuroo to call, to explain what went wrong back there, why his world felt like it was ending. But he never did. 

Not that night, or the morning after, or the following day or the one after that. He considered that maybe he had forgotten, gotten lost in the inconsistencies of time, but Kuroo wasn’t forgetful. He kept tabs on the most important things in his life, friends and family reigned at that top. Unless he wasn’t a friend anymore. Kenma tried not to think about that terrifying possibility. 

But things got worse than that—Kenma got sick. A mild summer cold that left him bed-bound by Shoyo and his parents, though he claimed that being outside in heat always did that to him. Which it does. But they looked too concerned and pitiful to let him out, so he was left to be confined inside of his bedroom twenty-four hours a day until he got better. 

Until he _gets_ better. 

He sniffles, rolling over in bed. Just beyond his window, rain patters down heavily, beating against his window with no remorse. A storm is brewing, slowly reeling in with its dark grey-black clouds and suffocating earthy humidity. For the fourth time that day, he reaches for his phone to check any new notifications. 

_None_. He sighs, throwing his head back against the pillow. A long moment flows throughout the bedroom. He considers waiting it out, but, again, isn’t that all he’s been doing in the first place? 

Kenma ends up calling him, again. He doesn’t answer. So, he leaves a voicemail alongside the four other ones he’s left over the past few days, hoping that maybe— _possibly_ , Kuroo will listen to them and stop ignoring him. And maybe then, if all isn’t lost, he can send him off to college with somewhat of a steady goodbye and a clear conscience knowing he got to do _something_. 

“Hey, it’s… me again. I’m just calling again to see if you’re doing okay from Wednesday. Or if you need help… dismantling the swing-set.” He facepalms softly, mouthing _why_ , _why_ , _why_. “Anyways, uh—call me when you listen to this. I’m, uh, really worried. So… so bye.” 

He hangs up quickly, groaning into his hands loudly, but not enough to distract his parents. He sneezes blankly, rubbing at his nose with a tissue from his bedside. He can’t spend all day in the same repetitive cycle; it’s useless, really, when Kuroo never answers and stuck in bed staring at his ceiling and counting down the days till he drives out of town. 

Thirteen days. That’s how long they have together until he comes back for the holidays. If thirteen days can be accounted for their time at all—at this rate, it seems like things might be on the road they were going back in June, back when they hadn’t spoken in three weeks and Kenma felt like world weighing on him from every angle. He can’t afford three meaningless weeks again. Not this time. 

Something clicks suddenly. 

Kenma glances toward the window, sitting up in place to look at the rain. The rain comes down exceptionally harsh, distant thunder rumbling beneath his feet. It’s definitely not the weather to be heading out in, let alone walk in, but he’s living in dire moments, and if being impulsive and walking to confront Kuroo is the way, then he’s willing to do it. 

Kenma climbs out of bed, pocketing his phone in his sweatpants and heading toward the closet. He pulls out a thick hoodie as he throws it on, quietly creeping out of his room to survey the hallway. His parents are in the living room, he knows, but if Kenma’s diligent enough he could sneak out the back door. 

He does exactly that. His footsteps patter faintly through the halls and downstairs, his socks soaking up most of the low creaks and groans from the floorboards. When he makes it to the backdoor, he throws on a pair of his shoes from the last time he came in. And then, he heads out. 

The rain is heavy and warm, pouring onto him before he can even get out of the house entirely. He jobs off the back porch into the yard, running past the gate, and onto the sidewalk. Unlike the months full of days before, the streets are barren of any life. There’s no laughter, or distant yells, or the buzzing of insects hovered around plant life. There’s only rain and the darkening sky above him; a car that speeds by splashing water, a flash of lightning, and the ground-shaking thunder that follows. 

Running in the rain while being sick isn’t much of a good idea either. 

_It’s too late now,_ he thinks, pulling his hood over his head tighter. He swerves a corner, watching the routine row of houses come into view, the blue one at the end being the Kuroos’. He runs down the street, chest heaving heavily, skies sobbing onto the world. Every step he takes trembles the earth, so much so he’s afraid the suburbia might collapse with him—the quaint houses, the humongous trees, and all the quiet families. 

When he reaches the gate, he pulls it open, finding himself stiff as he catches his breath. On the side of the yard, hunched onto the ground, terribly shielding himself from the rain is no other than Kuroo. He quickly reaches back and forth between a brown basket and the garden, plucking and cutting off vegetables from their stems at lightning speed. 

There’s a feeling you get when someone’s watching you. Kenma feels his gaze burning into Kuroo. It’s sweltering hot. 

He looks up, frozen. The world pauses on its axis for what feels like an hour. The two of them stare at each other, silent. 

Finally, Kuroo speaks softly, concerned. “Kenma? What are you doing here?” 

Kenma steps forward a few steps, anger rising deep from his chest. “I’m here because _you’ve_ been avoiding my messages for days, and you won’t answer my calls, or listen to my voicemails, and I’m worried. Why else would I be here?” 

Kuroo blinks, taken back by the outburst. “I know, Kenma, I can’t keep avoiding you. But I didn’t know what else to do back there,” he explains, dusting himself off as he stands up, “It was wrong to kiss you, when—” 

“When _what_? Whatever it is, it’s not worth ignoring me for days when you leave in two weeks. None of it is,” he snaps, moving forward to meet him where he is. The rain falls even harder as he says, “Just be honest with me.” 

“It’s not about the kiss. It never was,” Kuroo says. “I’m leaving in thirteen days, and kissing you—it was great, _amazing_ even. But I can’t go around kissing you like it’s nothing. I can’t up and leave when things get good like this. I’d be miserable at college if things were like that.” 

Kenma’s heart rate grows and grows as he listens closely. “When things get good?” he asks, stepping closer, “What are you talking about?” 

“ _Kenma_ ,” he exasperates, his voice turning tense, “is it not… obvious?” 

“ _No_ , it’s not obvious. That’s why I’m asking,” he retorts back. 

“Oh.” Kuroo’s face warms faintly, even in the heavy downpour. He wrings his hands together, pulling at his pointer finger. “Okay, so. You’re my best friend, and I—of course, I _like_ you, but also, I love you a lot. And not in the way that brothers do, or friends, or any of that. I’m _in_ love with you.” 

Kenma can’t be hearing what he thinks he’s hearing. He can’t be. Because in what world is Kuroo Tetsurou in love with him? Not this one, that’s for sure. Even if his ears are ringing and his lungs ache and his heart is racing and he’s soaking wet, that’s not this world by any means. 

But it _is_. He inhales sharply, throwing his head into his palms. Faintly, Kuroo says, “Kenma?” 

“Why didn’t you say anything sooner?” he asks, moving closer in front of him. “I’ve been losing my mind these past few days over you. I thought things would be bad again like in May—we can’t waste three weeks away from each other like before.” He shuts his eyes tightly, speaking softer. “I care about you—a lot. And shit, I don’t even know what romantic love is supposed to be like, or look like, or feel like, but I think it’s this. I think… it’s _you_.” 

Thunder crackles high and low from above them, rumbling the ground beneath their feet. Kenma keeps his eyes shut, clenching them as his life depends on it. There are a million things he wants to admit, coherent and incoherent, none of them feel right to say right now. Communication’s a simple, easy-to-understand thing, yet humans seem to be the worst at it. 

Kenma laughs. He shakes his head, slowly opening his eyes to say, “I can’t believe we’re so dumb,” he looks up at Kuroo, “We’ve been into each other this whole time and—look at us. We’re drenched from standing out in the rain like idiots.” 

Kuroo blinks. Then he starts laughing. “And we didn’t talk for a week because we kissed each other.” 

They both start laughing harder, looking directly at each other. Kuroo is soaking, top-to-bottom, with dirt scuffed all around his pants and shirt. He’s sure his nose is blotchy by now, and his hoodie and shorts are sopping wet. 

“You don’t have to worry about being miserable at college,” Kenma starts after they finally catch themselves. “Things don’t have to be good _just_ now, you know. They can be good for a while, even it’s a long distance away.” 

“Really?” Kuroo asks, eyes widening. 

“Yeah,” he smiles softly, “really.” 

Kenma takes the pleasure of being the one to reach forward and hug him this time. Even cold and wet, Kuroo is still warm, still breathing in that same, up-down pattern, still smelling like his dad’s cologne. After some time, his heart beats alongside his. Kenma almost wants to live in this moment forever. 

Keyword: almost. 

They break away from each other sometime shortly, jogging to run back inside the house. Kuroo swiftly swipes the basket up from the garden before they do, covering it carefully like in a baby-fashion. He sets it on the kitchen table when they get inside, grimacing at the soggy vegetables. 

“Why were you outside in the first place?” Kenma asks, eyeing the poor radishes. 

“My dad’s at work right now, so I was trying to be helpful,” he explains, slipping off his shoes, “I guess that backfired on me pretty badly.” 

“You deserved it.” 

Any other time, Kenma would say that with more fake vigor than annoyance, but this time it comes off as neither of the two. Kenma sounds... lovestruck. Which is disgusting and interesting all in the same. He grimaces at his tone, before Kuroo laughs loudly, pointing a finger at him. 

Before he has the chance to throw another insult at him—one with true aggravation—the boy heads into the other room, set on finding them fresh clothes and some towels. He sneezes loudly. _I hope I don’t get sick again,_ he thinks momentarily. _I don’t want Kuro to get sick before he leaves_. That thought alone makes him grimace again. The rush of teenage romanticism is getting to him slightly. Very, very gross. 

On a whim, Kenma checks his phone. He relaxes seeing his parents haven’t called. Shoyo has, though. Kenma clicks the call button as he presses the phone against his ear, listening to the persistent ring. Before he gets to answer, however, a strike of lightning strikes from beyond the kitchen window, followed by the pounce of thunder. 

An even larger _boom!_ follows after it, causing Kenma to drop his phone on the table. 

He hangs up quickly, promising to call Shoyo after he checks outside, but when he opens the back door, shielding his head to step on the patio, all he can manage to say is, “Holy shit.” The maple tree that’s stood for decades, a guardian of the many generations who lived here before, a symbol of something that feels everlasting, is fallen from its roots, facedown against the ground. Only a jagged stump stands still, the tips of the bark turned unruly ash black, amidst the already grey sky. Something about it fails to pull his eyes away, fails to realize that it’s finished a phase of its life. 

“ _Wow_ ,” Kuroo says, joining him after a few moments, holding towels and a heap of clothes. “What happened?” 

“I think the universe is mad at us.” 

Nothing about it is quite as funny as he makes it out to seem, but neither of them can spare the loud laughs that erupt afterward, booming throughout the yard as they stare out at a tree together. Kenma doesn’t know why he’s laughing so much, or why his chest feels less heavy than before, or why he feels like turning around and hugging Kuroo to the end of the earth. 

All he knows is that for once, in his world that never stops trembling in its wake, he feels balanced. It’s all he could ever ask for. 

✹ ✹ ✹ 

“I miss it already.” 

“What? The big tree sitting in your yard or before that?” 

“Both, I think.” Kuroo limply frowns at the stump sitting below his window, the former half of the tree being towed away on a truck to places they take such things. Kenma glances up at him as he says, “I loved that tree. I’m gonna miss it when I’m away.” 

“Poor baby,” jaunts Kenma, fake-pouting, “You’ve said that about everything today.” 

“That’s cause it’s true! I _am_ going to miss everything,” he retorts. “Just watch me.” 

“I’ll pass on that one.” 

Kenma turns on his heels, ready to go back inside and check for things he might’ve missed packing inside of his car for today, but Kuroo catches his arm, tugging him back to the spot he was in before. He glares at him, annoyed, but this frown unlike the previous one is genuine. Unlike his ungovernable smile, his frown is endearing; it makes him look younger, more rounded out. 

“Come on, Kenma. I watched this tree grow for eighteen whole years, and now it’s gone. I really am gonna miss it.” Kuroo pulls him over to the bare stump, pointing at the jagged spiraling circles in the core of the tree. “We should remember it somehow.” 

“We can’t bury a tree,” Kenma says, curling his fingers around his hand clasped onto his wrist. 

“I know _that_. But there are other ways of remembrance. Wait! Do you remember when we thirteen out here?” Kuroo asks. “We were getting back from hanging at the park, and I found the pocketknife, so you suggested we carve our names?” 

He blinks. “Yeah,” a pause, “but does that mean you want us to do that same thing, or carve our name?” 

“As nice of a date that sounds, I don’t think my dad would appreciate me running off on the day I’m set to drive to college. So, we should carve our names in the stump,” Kuroo suggests. “Like old times.” 

Even as he’d liked to say no, he can’t ignore the subtle flit of his anxious pointer finger dancing across his palm lightly. Kenma looks up at him, finding his eyes wide as to say _please?_ Mentally, he groans. He was never supposed to end up a sucker for Kuroo Tetsurou. 

“ _Okay_. We can carve our names.” 

He traps him in a hug briefly before he runs inside to grab a proper knife. When he comes back out, Kenma is sitting on the grass, hunched over the stump curiously. He joins by his side so close, they’re touching knees. 

“Should I go first? Or do you want to?” 

Kenma bites his cheek awkwardly. “I’ll go first.” 

He takes the knife carefully, wielding it at an angle that works a pencil, almost. He digs it into the bark deeply, etching it slowly, to not show from a distance. Kuroo peers over his shoulder curiously, but he bats him away, mumbling something along the lines of, _it’s super-secret_. 

When he finishes, he sets down the knife, looking over his message. Kuroo practically jumps to read it, eyes scanning over the words curiously, eyes wide when he finishes reading. In a fond drawl, the one he’s heard since the beginning of time, he says, “ _Kenma_ , I didn’t know you had this in you. ‘Letting you go is hard, but it’ll never beat the feeling of seeing you again.’ Really?” 

“You _really_ didn’t have to repeat it back to me,” he urges, cheeks warming. “You better like it. Cause I can’t erase it from the stump.” 

“I love it! I just didn’t know we had to write messages with our signatures. Glad I’m good at improvising.” 

He rolls his eyes, falling back against the grass. The sky is peaceful blue, cloudless on a day that should feel sad in a distant way but isn’t. He’s not sad at all. Maybe because now, things are different. At the beginning of the summer, it felt like all might’ve been lost for them. Kuroo was going away, and he’d be alone, and there’d just be him, by himself, on the brink of drowning in a world surrounded by happy people. That’s not his monologue anymore. It never was. He just needed to realize that. 

“Okay... I’m finished!” 

Kuroo grins happily at him as Kenma sits up, leaning over to read the scrappy handwriting scrawled on the stump. In broken, sharp etches, his message reads, _Leaving is even harder, but I’m glad to have you living in my heart wherever I go_. He can’t help the smile that grows on his face reading it. 

“Have you always been this cheesy?” 

“Hey! You’re the one who started it,” he retorts, smiling just as wide as him. He reaches over tackling Kenma onto the ground, saying, “Can’t help we’re both saps.” 

Kuroo hovers over his entire body, their faces just inches away from touching. He smells like lavender and sea salt. The sun is a godsend for his eyes that glow in the light, ever illuminated as Kenma stares intently at them, breath hitched in his throat. They’re close—too close. Yet, still, he whispers, “I’m not a sap.” 

“Really?” he teases, raising an eyebrow. “I must’ve thought otherwise then. I should double-check just in case.” 

Kuroo leans in close, looking him close in the eyes for a sign of approval. When Kenma feebly nods, he leans in to kiss him, their lips catching onto each others. As much as they’ve done over the past few days, the feeling never fails to make his stomach jump, overflowing with that airy, magical butterfly feeling. Especially when Kuroo threads his hands through his hair like he’s doing now, or when they’re chest-to-chest, or out of breath afterward, or even when he can reach back and wrap his hands around his too-firm backside just because. He loves every bit of it. And maybe, in a way, it makes him a gigantic sap for loving something so simple. But he’ll never admit it. Not here. Not now. 

Kuroo pulls away only when Kenma weakly pushes him off, flopping onto the ground beside him. For a moment, neither of them says anything. Not like they need to. The sky and sun are enough for them; children laugh from across the street, the grass reaches above his eyes, the world is so, so bright. Suddenly, Kenma glances over at him. Kuroo entranced by the blinding white sun. 

“Kuroo?” 

“Yeah?” He meets his gaze, expectant. 

“Back in June, in my kitchen, you asked me something so outlandish I thought you were going crazy. It was such an... _odd_ question. Do you remember?” he asks. 

Kuroo hums, shaking his head after a moment. “No. Was it something embarrassing?” 

“No, it wasn’t embarrassing. It just... caught me off guard. You asked me if I’d make it your best summer yet. I said I didn’t make promises like that, but still, you said you had faith I’d make it your best summer whether I tried or not.” Kuroo’s eyes narrow, then even out again, curious. “So, I guess I’m wondering this: did I make it your best summer?” 

Kuroo searches for an answer in between the grass in Kenma’s eyes. Something about that question stayed in his mind throughout the whole summer, yet still, he can’t decipher an answer to that himself. He waits quietly, patiently. 

“No,” Kuroo answers clear as a day. “You didn’t make it my best summer yet.” 

_Oh_ , Kenma thinks sorely. Of course. How could he have been the highlight of someone’s last summer as a kid before they left for college? There were other, better things to love and remember—he just isn’t one of them. And that’s alright, he thinks. It’s not his worst tragedy. 

“I think... I’ve had better summers than this before. _Way_ better ones,” Kuroo elaborates, “But, the difference between this summer and the others is one thing: you. Kozume Kenma, you’re perceptive and anxious, and the smartest person I know. And you, above anyone else, matter the most because you didn’t make this summer my best. You’re just the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” 

His heart thumps intensely within his caged ribs, a deep sense of juxtaposition set between him and the serene afternoon befalling them. Something about that—his last words—make Kenma want to cry. Deeply. Or laugh. Because how did he wind up with someone who loves him as much as Kuroo Tetsurou? He has no idea at all. But he knows he loves him. And he doesn’t want to let go of it for the world. 

High in the sky, flying far from them—the city, possibly the country, definitely the universe—is a bluebird. No particular species. Just radiant blue like the sky above them, flying away to something great, somewhere where they’d be loved. Or they _could_ love. 

“You’ll come back when the grass is green again, right?” 

Kenma’s fingers flit to reach Kuroo’s, intertwining themselves between his own. His palms are warm, soft, just like they always are. He looks closely at him, raking over his eyes, nose, mouth. Soon enough, he’s going to miss these features terribly. He almost makes the effort to smile. Kuroo does the same, grinning in the way that he knows he hares, he knows he’ll miss like a lung. The bluebird is far, far away now. 

“Only if the sun will shine.” 

**Author's Note:**

> hoped you liked it!!! i like rambling and talking about details because it makes a story whole to me, but i hope it was truly bearable :-) comments and kudos appreciated!


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